I had a boss once, who among other things, told me:“I don’t want you working on your poetry during company time.”My caboose was to be confined to the chair in my office.I was to ignore any visitation of sudden, non-work-related inspiration.

Short walks were permissible but not short poems.I promised him efficiency and a brutal suppression of my art.But in my head (and my proletarian heart) I told him:“I will do my job and I will do my duty—But you cannot take my surplus beauty.”